


The Age of Oddities Series Prologue: Fools are my theme, let satire be my song

by grassle



Series: The Age of Oddities [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Regency, racial slurs of the period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassle/pseuds/grassle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prologue to a Regency AU version of S1: A Study in Pinks, The Beaux's Banker and The Glorious Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Age of Oddities Series Prologue: Fools are my theme, let satire be my song

**Author's Note:**

> Archea2 and Lauramac_10 like the idea of Regency Sherlock, all skin-tight breeches and flowing white shirt. I like the idea of Sherlock and Lestrade, only with added Regency. And spanking.  
> Just don’t get the arse about historical, geographical, cultural or procedural inaccuracies. Seriously. Don’t.
> 
> “This is the age of oddities let loose.”  
> George Gordon, Lord Byron, _Don Juan_
> 
> “Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.”  
> George Gordon, Lord Byron, _English bards and Scotch reviewers, A Satire_

**The Age of Oddities Series.  Prologue: "Fools are my theme, let satire be my song."**

**January 29, early-ish in the nineteenth century.**

That chap’s in the wrong place, thought Dr John Watson, huddling into himself on his low bench against the wall and watching the tall man descend the two stone steps and duck his head under the stone arch to enter the insalubrious taproom. Had he but known it, Sherlock Holmes, after a lightning-fast but comprehensive sweep of the room, was thinking the same about him.

_The man’s too well-dressed and his bearing and mien far too aristocratic for this Saffron Hill, well, not to sharpen the point too finely,_ _flash-house_. There. He’d acknowledged it. Had actually framed the opinion, albeit silently, that the Kingfisher, the north London public house, was a haunt of criminals and ne’er-do-wells. And as such, the reason John Watson was there.

He caught a tangle of black curls and a glimpse of a pale face as the hatless man passed by John’s bench. The hem of the man’s cloak stirred up the sawdust on the floor as he strode between the establishment’s handful of upturned barrel tables on his way to the plank bar supported on its boxes against one side of the smoky room.

John watched, as discreetly as he’d been observing all evening, he hoped, as the man turned to examine the taproom of the public house, giving John a tantalising flash of strange, almost eerie blue-silver eyes. The newcomer, perhaps satisfied the few men playing cards and dicing at the smaller plank tables were no threat, turned his attention to the publican. He leaned forwards and the quicksilver flash of his walking cane had the fellow on his feet behind the bar.

There came a squawk, as of surprise, curtailed as the stranger bent over and spoke to the unkempt, rat-faced man. Try as he might, John couldn’t catch the words spoken, and he was straining so hard, that when the stranger, unsatisfied with the reply, seemingly, slammed his cane down on the plank, John flinched. He wasn’t at ease with loud, sudden noises, not since –

The tall man suddenly placed one long-fingered hand on the bar separating the business from the public, and vaulted it! Before the publican could finish his guttural cry of protest, the tall man had swung his wooden cane into a square of sackcloth serving as a curtain on the wall. As the makeshift drape was dashed to the ground, John saw it had been covering a small recess to the right of the landlord, perhaps an entrance to an ancient root- or ice-cellar. Only now, its depths served a much less innocent purpose…

With a glare and a poke to the stomach, the publican was dismissed and the man entered the small space. A chorus of exclamations rang out and a deep, cultured voice, not that John was expecting anything else, could be heard. John, Captain Watson, with a soldier’s instinct for trouble, started to his feet.

“Oi, mister.” One of the older, rheumy-eyed card-players, whom John had bought a Flash of Lightning for earlier, and thought it very apt for a flash-house, regretting he couldn’t make a note of that then and there, shook his head. He stuck out a foot, as if barring John’s progress. He lowered it under Captain Watson’s raised eyebrow. “Yer did us a favour” – here he raised his now empty cup of Blue Ruin – “so us’ll do ’ee one. Leave ’im be. In there.”

There being the back-room, the reason for the lack of illicit activity, the reason for John’s presence, in the taproom.

“And why should I do that.” Both Captain and Dr Watson could be very pugnacious, when being told what to do. He’d demonstrated that earlier, in declining the old cuffin’s thinly disguised order to join them in their game. He’d no desire to be fleeced by a Captain Sharp, and anyway, was there to observe.

“Coz you din’t seem so bacon-brained  as Mr Bow Monde.” The sparse-haired ornery indicated where the newcomer had broken into, then shrugged and hacked up some phlegm. Dr Watson would have recommended some tisane or salve. Captain Watson gave the table’s occupants a dagger-sharp glare and vaulted the plank in his turn, though less elegantly, he’d be forced to admit, his stiffness and cane a hindrance.

“And ’oo’s this ’un?” A stocky, jowly man, not unlike a bulldog, sprang up just inside the small dingy room. “Yer second?” This got the handful of men ensconced inside the hidey hole guffawing. Again John saw a blaze of mercury as the tall man raked his gaze over him. Just for a second: the man then landed a facer hard and true on a smaller man, the sort undersized and half-legged enough to be vicious about it. Rather a decent uppercut, John noted, hearing the crack of the smaller man’s broken nose and seeing the blood bloom from it as angry exclamations rang around the room.

The man drawled to his would-be sparring partner, “Oh, were you still jawing? Only I _thought_ you promised me a mill.”

_An illegal boxing brawl?_ John’s heart thudded a thicker beat as he noticed the _Bon Ton_ member had removed his leather gloves, and his dark blue-grey military-shawl coat. Easier to move without the latter’s constraints, but it was also one less layer, to pad him against any sudden weapon. And while the member of the _Haut Monde_ in front of him was no doubt a regular at Gentleman Jackson's boxing saloon, these villains would no doubt fight dirty, as –

Dirty as the man, who, despite the confines of the cramped space and the spoiling-for-it aggression of the shorter man who was his opponent in this makeshift bout, performed some strange move, appearing tight against his side like a genie in the murky gloom. Once there, he elbowed his weight into the idiot’s solar plexus then slammed the back of the fist into his windpipe, making him fall to the ground, clutching his throat and gasping for air like the terrier-dog he resembled.

“As I said, gentlemen…” The man coated the last word in a sneer. “These are my object. The rest you may keep.”

For the first time, John looked down at the small table the thieves had evidentially been squatting around, sharing spoils and swag. Some jewellery, gleaming a dull gold and green in the gloom, the object of the man’s desire, had been separated from the haul.

“Ooh, you’re in the basket now, Mr Fine Tulip,” came in a rough voice, and the thickset man, whose resemblance to the Buddah ended with his hairless head, snatched up a cudgel from a ledge. Within a second the table had been yanked aside and the middle of the floor cleared, an impromptu ring, as the bald-pate attacked.

John started to say something, to spring forward, his hand tight around his cane, to do something, but he’d forgotten about the man’s cane. Not just some latest-cry accoutrement with an ornamental head of semi-precious stones, this was sturdy, and weighty (was it in fact weighted at one end with lead, John wondered) and practical for –

“Singlestick!” was yelped by one of the room, watching the tall dark-haired man throw the cane from right to left hand to execute a horizontal stroke.

_Canne de combat_ , John could have told him. He’d seen enough of it, during sword training, in the Campaign, although perhaps not such a clean downward lunge, one which disarmed his fellow combatant. Nor had he seen fighters who stood on one end of their opponent’s cudgel to snatch it up without stooping, then jabbed it into their opposite number’s stomach, incapacitating them.

In the shocked silence which followed, the man waited, an eyebrow raised in invitation as he looked around at the spectators. His meaning was obvious, but when no one took up his invite, he shrugged and took up his top coat, re-dressing. He needed no help to shrug into his coat, it being far removed from the tight garments, padded at shoulder and chest, that fops had made to show themselves off.

“Jimbo’s copped it! The swell’s killed Jimbo!” cried a voice, taking the downed man’s immobility for death. John could have told him it wasn’t, but the latest combatant didn’t seek a medical opinion. Instead this man, thin, straggly hair flying and mean eyes flashing in a dirt-grimed face, dragged something long and metallic from under his coat. The smoking pewter lamp revealed it to be a sword. Purloined from his better, John surmised, blood boiling at the sight of the cross-hilted, curved, scimitar-like weapon, no doubt that of a British army officer, in the hands of this ruffian. He started forward from his position at the back, to be stopped by an incredulous laugh.

“ _Really?_ ” The taunt rang around the gloom and murk like a gold doubloon. The man tapped his cane and the Malacca wood shaft fell away, revealing the deadly gleaming blade the case concealed, the lethal weapon far better cared for than the villain’s stolen Marmeluke. No one moved.

Not singlestick but swordstick, John thought, watching the man essay a few negligent thrusts and blocks, revealing his prowess. His dark curls danced as he moved but his breathing was deep and even. Used to this, John surmised.

“You’re quite sure?” murmured the man, re-sheathing his blade and then holding his coat-sides back for a second. Just a second, but enough to show the butts of a brace of pistols, one tucked into either side of the material in special pockets. John recognised them as a matching set, a duelling set. “No one?” continued the tall man, hefting the butts a little. The crowd flinched. John read the name of the manufacturer. Wogdon’s. Of course. Wogdon and Barton’s now. Only the best of course, for this… Wait. Those firearms, accurate, hair-triggers, were favoured by the rich for their Wogdon’s Affairs, or duels, but also by the…Bow Street Runners. Was this man, perhaps… No. He was Quality. A swell, as the unwashed rabble had said.

“I did intimate I was only after these.” The man used his cane, rolling his eyes at the murmur from the crowd when he leant forwards with it, to detach the baubles he required from the rest. He scooped them into his pocket. “I take my leave.” And he was gone, stepping on and over the table and a box as he exited, vanishing into the shadows. John swallowed, then again, his throat drier as the men turned to him. He didn’t mind admitting he bolted. At the doorway he caught a glimpse of a tall, hatless, curly-haired figure down the street and without thinking, followed the chimera. His feet slipped on the mud- and manure-coated cobblestones of the warren’s narrow passage, and he coughed against the foul stink he’d been inured from whilst indoors, for all that had been fetid in its own way.

No, the Thames-water had its own smell, tar and rot and waste – of all kinds, wafted across London by the unforgiving night’s disinterested breeze. He’d thought of that description earlier and was glad he written it down, when he had the time. Now he hadn’t the leisure, not when he was in pursuit down a narrow alley and…

– shoved against its rough wall, his hands going out to break his impact and so in the perfect position for a hard body behind him to hold something heavy and barrel-shaped, something which was primed with a click and an acrid reek of powder, to his temple with a low, rich, “Don’t move.”

But he did, had to, despite his pounding heart, had to turn his head and see…a riot of dark curls and parted ripe-plum lips above him and to his left, and especially those extraordinary eyes flickering over him, giving the impression they were more deadly than the gun. “Oh,” came from the heart-shaped mouth and the pistol was removed, along with the heat and press of the hard body as the man moved back. He indicated John was free to move, to turn. The man replaced his firearm.

“Southey or Rowlandson?” he enquired.

“I’m sorry?” John gasped.

“Very possibly. Southey or Rowlandson?” The man sighed as John gaped and shook his head. “Chronicler or caricaturist? Why else would a man like you be touring the stews if not in search of material to describe or depict in his recent career change.” His flat tone and rolled eyes indicated his opinion of those foolish enough to sightsee in the warrens of underlit, evil-smelling and evil-teeming alleyways and courtyards in which a stranger might well lose anything from his pocket-book to his very life.

“A man like me?” John shook off the spell of that rumbling baritone.

“Umm. Army doctor. Like your father. No; he’s a doctor. Your _grandfather_ ’s the military cove. So, elder son, pigeonholed double-wise… Oh, Almeida or Buçaco? Where you were wounded and invalided home? That cane, although you no longer need it…isn’t because you’re a fashion plate.”

John sagged, grateful for the filthy wall behind him.

“I’d say the latter place. You haven’t been back in London that long.” The moonlit gaze surveyed him, the full lips pouted in thought. “You do know you don’t need that stick any longer? I understand it gives you a certain security, but –”

“Who…” John pulled himself together. Became Captain Watson. Perhaps always would be, so some degree. “The devil are you, sir?”

“Not the devil. _Well…_ Depends who you ask, I suppose. The name’s Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock Holmes stuck out a gloved hand, and after a second, John shook it.

“ _Sir_ Holmes?” he enquired, continuing when Sherlock Holmes scowled, “ _Baron_ Holmes?” For there could be no doubt this man, if not a hothouse flower of the _ton_ , was of noble blood.

“The Marquess of Holmes is my father,” came the grated admission.

John smiled, pressing his advantage. “And why do I think you’re the younger son. So, _Viscount_ Holmes, then.”

“I don’t use the title,” came back.

“Dr John Watson. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I _do_ use mine. But please, call me John.” He gave a broad grin, enjoying the few seconds of his interlocutor’s discomfiture. “I’m no social commentator or satirist. I was sort of sent here though, but not exactly to document the sights.” By no means would he confess his ambitions and plans to this stranger. Describe his earlier, fruitless, dead-end attempts. Admit he was here on a whim, a wing and a prayer, perhaps.

“Sent by…” Sherlock Holmes indicated John should precede him out of the alley. Not so much out of politeness as a wish not to have anyone at his back, John felt.

“Sent by… Oh, by my old dresser,” John explained. “Yes, Mr Michael Stamford, now at –”

“St Bartholomew's Hospital,” Sherlock finished for him.

“Oh, you know Mike? He suggested I’d…find it, well.” He wasn’t explaining his idea, his plan, his...wish. He wasn’t. Especially as it was looking dafter by the minute. Unlike the man in front of him, who looked…right, somehow, in the moonlight and shadows. Not that he’d be up to the, wait, what was the phrase, the kind of language John would be using in the… Oh yes. Up to the moonlit larks of the fast set, raising some kind of breeze once the theatre had ended and he’d been kicked out of some gaming-hell. Oh, no doubt he’d look at home at some _ton_ gathering or other, if he so chose. Not that John could see this man choosing the ballrooms and clubs of polite society. “You display to advantage, sir,” he blurted out. “You’re of the Fancy.”

“Thank you?” The man stood taller and looked down farther at him. “I appreciate your forthrightness, but you should know I don’t usually indulge. I consider myself m–”

“You mistake me, sir. I mean you fight well, that you box.” John coloured a little. The top-lofty man probably didn’t know or use fashionable expressions. Hadn’t had to research them like John had. He mimicked the stance Sherlock Holmes had adopted earlier.

“Ah. I see. I exercise, yes.”

“A lot. Why? Let me guess.” That verbal flaying earlier had left him raw, he now understood. “You’re a jaded tulip of the _ton_ out for a rush.” No, that was unfair. And inaccurate. He surveyed the man with a clinician’s eye, with a soldier’s experience, with a... _writer’s_ perception. Sherlock Holmes was no beau or buck, on the hunt or the strut, ripe for a revel-rout. “No; of course not. Some justice dealer, righting wrongs. Also for thrills.” He muttered the last three words.

“As I said, I exercise.” Sherlock Holmes turned away, perhaps checking some noise at the end of the courtyard, then swung back. His eyes glittered more silver than blue as a cloud passed over the moon, leaving it free to shine down, even in this stew. “Mental exercise,” he clarified, smirking at John’s puzzlement.

“I don’t –”

“No. I see that.” For a moment it seemed the strange man would leave it at that, leave John uncomprehending, but he spoke, and at such a lick John could hardly follow.

“I solve cases, crimes, for mental stimulation. The Duchess of Cromer reported a theft, her emeralds, the set containing the famous Duke of Cromer emerald, one of the world’s largest, mined in the beryl mines of western Bahia State, Brazil and given or sold – stories vary – to the fifth Duke of Cromer by the Emperor Pedro I of Brazil and gifted by the duke to his duchess piece by piece for each son, that is, heir and spares, she gave him. So far, so tedious.” Sherlock Holmes mimed patting his mouth in a yawn.

“She secretly paid a certain private officer of my...acquaintance to attend her rather than offering a reward for the return of her property and paying a fee for successful prosecution of the malefactor. The tedious woman claimed she needed the discretion, that her husband couldn’t know the Cromer jewels had been stolen. So far, so obvious. However, I quickly saw her story was false, that the window hadn’t been smashed from the outside and the safe broken open by a third party as she claimed. It was more than apparent – to me at any rate – that her young Cicisbeo, whose pockets are to let – heavy losses at the tables, losses he cannot afford, but which he incurred in his quest to mix with the bloods and beaux – had become desperate of all his IOUs coming home to roost at once.”

The fellow seemed not to need breath! Yet, all humans did. And he was, wasn’t he? Not some sprite or will-o-the-wisp, despite appearances?

“Ah. Punting on River Tick, was he, the dandiprat. And with gambling debts being debts of honour…” John nodded, wanting his companion to see he understood. He was already framing this, shaping it, transmuting it into material he could –

“Oh, quite.” Sherlock Holmes let his blank face show how vehemently he believed in that precept. “And unable to raise anything at the cents for cents – no collateral for any respectable moneylender, if that’s not a contradiction – and after he’d ‘borrowed’ a succession of small and getting larger sums from his light o’ love, who could hand over no more without the duke becoming suspicions. And once her young popinjay knew that, he simply helped himself to some jewellery, figuring the emeralds were the most valuable.”

“So Her Grace covered it up and made a slight hue and cry…” John said, wondering why Sherlock Holmes gave a slight huff of laughter at the phrase.

“Rather. And I supposed both Her and His Grace would want the set back before it was broken up and sold as loose gems. So I informed myself where they would be fenced and secured their return.” He gave a tiny smile and tossed the handful of sparkling stones up, to catch them easily.

“Exercise,” said John.

“Exercise,” agreed Sherlock.

“And thrills,” John insisted. In the service, he’d seen plenty of men, good men, who’d…been nothing like this one.

“You’re an army doctor,” Sherlock Holmes now said, and John wondered for the first time where the man was leading him. They’d crossed the courtyard and walked the length of a street of dilapidated buildings. A jumble of whorehouses, thieves’-kitchens and God-forgotten slums, John thought, itching to write his impressions down.

“Yes,” he replied, blinking a little at the statement.

“Any good?” came the next shocking question.

“Very good.” John was nettled.

“You’ve seen…a bit of trouble, then, I expect.”

As John looked at him, something in the eerie moon-silvered gaze kindled a matching something in John’s.

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime… Far too much,” he responded, his voice…slow.

“Want to see some more?” came in a velvet purr out of the seductive darkness.

“Oh God yes,” breathed John, the reply profane and heartfelt and sighed out before John had even thought it, he could have sworn. He was quick enough to see a huge grin take over Sherlock Holmes’ face, and grabbed his sleeve as he went to set off. “This is connected to what that man, Horgan, the publican, whispered isn’t it?” Again, he didn’t know where the thought had come from, or that he’d been about to utter it.

“Yes.” And Sherlock Holmes looked surprised. “He was trying to sell out a rival to distract me. It didn’t, but I’ve a fancy to heed his words. So, do come on!”

With that slender-fingered hand pulling him along, John had no choice but to run, and dodge, and shimmy, and scramble and crouch and edge and leap and drop in a mad, bone-jarring race through dark streets and up walls and along roofs to emerge, panting, near the edge of the slum, nearer to the river, John thought.

“What’s this place?” he whispered, indicating the shabby building, decrepit, black with soot, windows unglazed, wedged tight against its neighbours. It bore no board or sigh he could discern, but sounds of revelry came from inside. Drinking, chancing… He followed his companion’s line of sight to glance at the upper floor. These windows were not glassed in, but were boarded over. Securely. Something in there that was intended to stay in there.

“A nanny-house.”

“Pardon?”

“And I thought you rolling in the cant.” Sherlock Holmes gave a tight half-smile at John’s naivety. “Let me see. How to put it. Ah. Going back a generation, a house of soiled doves.”

“A cat-house?” John stared at the alleged brothel.

“Not your average palace of light-skirts. They’re called nanny-houses because –”

“The girls are young. Children,” John whispered, sickened. “How…” He had too many questions. Couldn’t go on. He pressed back against the door as a man approached the establishment, the noise and stench spilling out as he entered.

“Yellow-Meat. That's the term used in this dispicable and inhuman trade." He looked as angry as John felt. "Jaded palates demand fresh flavours. Brought over from the Orient by someone who would be a new forward-player in the underworld. Conveyed from the Limehouse docks today, trussed up and gagged. No need to drug them, so they’re ready to start earning their keep right away.”

“Mr Holmes!” John put a hand on the man’s arm in horror. “What can we do?”

“ _You_ can start by calling me Sherlock. You’ll find I’m quite ramshackle.”

“Sherlock,” repeated John obediently, agreeing that yes, this man was irreverent of Society’s expectations. “What shall we do?” He’d…coupled them together, he belatedly noticed.

“Do? Smoke them, or rather him, out.”

“You’re after the master. The owner. The slaver.” John swallowed and nodded. “How – Oh.”

“As I said. Smoke him out.”

John didn’t trust that very tight smile creasing Sherlock’s face, and stared at the tinder box and flint being operated by a dexterous hand. Within seconds the man had his wrenched-loose necktie alight and was climbing up the wall of the building, to deposit it under some loose slats of wood, blowing on it under the flame licked.

“The people!” John called up, hissing in the inky gloom, pointing at the premises.

“They’re not worthy of that name, John,” came back down to him scant seconds before Sherlock jumped down to land beside him once more. Sherlock pulled him back into the shadows of the building’s side. “But they’ll do what that sort always do. Save themselves.”

He was right. There came shouts and cries of consternation, then a rush of men pushing and shoving to get free. Sherlock produced a halt-whistle and blew on it, tossing a second to John, adding the ‘public office’ sounds coming from two different places to the confusion and prompting a faster, more chaotic exodus. Those who came out last had been upstairs, John supposed. They included a couple of heavyset men, who spared a moment to look up at the building for the source of the fire, but who hurtled off after the clients, perhaps to extract payments, John presumed.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, crouching down low to avoid the gusts of black smoke. “No girls have come out.”

“I know. But their master has.” Sherlock grabbed hard at John and thrust him back against the wall. “Stay here. This is my affair, do you hear?” He waited for no answer but strolled around the side of the building to face… A Chinaman! John had never seen one so close to before, never seen such a huge one in loose-fitting trousers and top, his black hair plaited and his moustaches oiled and…holding Sherlock’s now barely smoking rag and yelling something incomprehensible.

His cries changed as he saw Sherlock, Sherlock standing raised-eyebrowed, holding a tinder box and flint, items he threw aside as the man charged him. The man’s charge landed him against the wall, Sherlock having stepped nimbly aside, and that should have allowed Sherlock to disable him, only the man turned and twisted and stretched and clasped hold of Sherlock. It wasn’t boxing and it wasn’t Graeco-Roman wrestling, but something subtle and overpowering, something which had the Oriental forcing Sherlock to his knees by a mere twist of his arms behind his back.

John had just started forward when Sherlock responded in kind, wriggling free and kicking the fellow’s legs from under him to floor him. John watched, not comprehending a single move or countermove of this strange fight, this foreign affair which had the antagonists using their opponent’s movements and weight against them, it seemed, panting, heaving, straining, to grab victory, then lose it.

“Oh, hang this,” came from Sherlock as he drove an elbow hard into his opposite number’s throat, then smashed his head against the floor as the man shook it, winded and gasping. Sherlock raised the Easterner’s head and slammed it down again, then sat down hard, clearly struggling. The man made an attempt to rise, one leg hooking out to catch Sherlock, but John had had enough too. He slipped around the corner and cracked his cane down hard on the villain’s head. The thwack was satisfying, and the man raised incredulous eyes to his two nemeses for scant seconds before falling unconscious.

“Weighted with lead!” Sherlock observed, taking the stick from John and balancing it in his hands. He accepted John’s hand to enable him to take his feet, shaking his disordered curls back from his flushed face. John shrugged. He was out and about in a rookery, after all. Not taking precautions would have been silly. “You’re rather a surprise, Dr Watson. _Captain_ Watson.”

“John,” replied John simply, indicating Sherlock should watch the bounder whilst he himself slipped inside the knocking-shop and tore down drapes to bind their erstwhile foe with. “What was all that?” he asked, doing a poor imitation of the movements Sherlock had made earlier. “Seemed you both knew it, that…technique.”

“ _Baritsu_. A Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I could…teach you, if you liked.”

“I…would indeed. But what are you going to do with him?”

“Leave him to be collected.” Sherlock finished securing the slaver and rolled him to a large barrel, which he made serve as a prison, fastening a makeshift lid on it. He caught up a white stone to scribble on the temporary goal and also scratched directions on the walls and thereabouts.

“Collected? There’s no Watch here. The foot-patrol doesn’t come in here.” John shook his head.

“I think a Runner might.”

“A Bow Street Runner? You think a public officer’s going to come along and… How hard was the blow you sustained to the head?” John asked. He was about to offer to examine Sherlock when a movement at the door stopped him. They both stared as two young girls, aged about ten or so, John reckoned, peeped out. They moved a fraction to stand in the doorway, holding a rough-looking blanket around themselves. The slightly taller one spoke, her tongue incomprehensible.

“It’s all right,” John reassured them. “You’re safe now.” He started forwards, and the youngster girl clung to the other, who clasped her tightly. “He’s gone.” John raised his voice and pointed down the empty street, nodding.

“John. Let me.” Sherlock put out a hand and spoke, but not in English. It wasn’t…any European language, John quickly understood, but the same tongue the girls spoke. Oh!

“Cantonese,” murmured Sherlock, divining John’s puzzlement. He was scribbling a note on a page he then tore from a leather note-book taken from his pocket. He folded it and wrote something on the outside. “Take this to this address.” He repeated his order in the Oriental language, holding out the paper for the taller girl and beckoning the pair forward. They came slowly and it took a minute to gain their confidence.

“Let’s put them in a hack,” Sherlock said, shepherding his charges along the street.

“A Hackney-coach, in this district,” John muttered, trying to assess if the girls had been…harmed. They didn’t have to walk for long before coming to the edge of the stew, to a bigger road. These places were like that, springing up in the back lanes on the edges of respectable districts. A three-whistle blast had a closed four-wheel cab drawing up, and Sherlock and John helped the girls in. The elder showed the note, with its address, to the driver.

“Off you go, Tom,” instructed Sherlock, and both men watched as the coach set off.

“That Hackney,” John began.

“Is mine. Registered to me.” Sherlock turned, waited for more questions. When none came, he continued, “Much more convenient than maintaining a private carriage. Not as if I’d want to tool around Hyde Park or trundle down St James’s Street, and I don’t need it all the time. Tom’s perfectly at liberty to ply his trade when I don’t need him.”

“Huh,” was all John could come up with.

“You have more questions.” That deceptively soft rumble made John shiver.

“Irene Adler,” he began, trying to shake off the spell of that voice and those eyes regarding him.

“Oh. You read upside down and from a distance.” Sherlock inclined his head. “She’s –”

“The Woman! The actress! The singer!” John exclaimed.

“Contralto opera singer, yes.”

“I’ve got tickets!” John continued, foolishly.

“Oh, Good Lord.” Sherlock curled a lip. “You’re one of those besotted swains, lining Drury Lane in their hundreds to watch her in her _success de scandale_. Shall you claim you thought you were to attend a real performance of _Don Giovanni_ and not some burlesque called _Giovanni in London_ , in which she shows off her flawlessly perfect legs in breeches as she shockingly plays the male title-role?” He yawned.

“No, I… I… How do you know her? And why did you send those girls to her?” John demanded.

“Long story. Let’s just say she owes…a, what was it, debt of honour, and she’ll find them a position. Probably employ them as seamstresses at her home and at the theatre. Soon everyone will want a Chinese maid.”

“The Woman does tend to set fashion,” John agreed, his eyes starry.

“Dr Watson.” Sherlock yawned again. “John. Do forgive me but I haven’t been to bed since… What day’s today? Friday? Three days.” He spoke louder over Dr Watson’s exclamations. “And I need to sleep for a few hours. So would later, at nine-thirty in the morning, suit?”

“Suit…”

“For you to see the rooms.”

“Rooms.” He knew he was merely repeating, like an East Indies parrot, but…

“Apartment, then. Whatever term is fashionable nowadays.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Rooms where?”

“Oh, yes, 221B Baker Street. My address. Where you’ll be living.”

“Wh –” John caught himself. “Liv –” He censured himself again. “As what?”

“I don’t know, anything! A surgeon, perhaps. Many ex-army doctors enter private practice. It’s quite respectable. Or if you fancy being quite the gentleman of leisure, simply share my quarters with me and join me in my pastimes.” The smile Sherlock sent his way was perhaps designed to reassure, but John snatched at a slim arm as Sherlock turned to go.

“You seriously mean me to share your dwelling?” His voice had risen. “As what?” It rose a little higher.

Sherlock glanced down at John’s hand, and John loosened his grip but didn’t let go. Sherlock sighed.

“Oh, be my live-in valet, if you like. Or the house physician.”

“Bodyguard, more like. You seem to need one.”

“As much as you need that cane,” riposted Sherlock. “That cane you left back along the street, by the way, and have walked soundly without, and that after clambering about roofs and scaling walls.”

“Blast!” exclaimed John, grinning as he realised the truth of the other man’s words. “That cane was useful, in a pinch. Oh.” He grinned harder as Sherlock showed him the weapon nestled inside his coat, hanging from another sewn-in holder. “Remind me to thank your tailor.”

“My housekeeper. You may do so tomorrow.” Sherlock grinned back. The his face sobered. “Look, John. I must be frank. Living with me…it could be dangerous.”

“As are you,” John replied, regarding him steadily.

“As are you,” Sherlock echoed and held out his hand to shake the one John had extended. With his other hand he held out a firearm, John’s army piece, which he must have purloined from the back of John’s waistband, without John missing it! The audacious devil!

John started to berate the gentleman crook, but dissolved into giggles before a word emerged. Sherlock, after a startled look, caught his merriment, and their laughter pealed out into the dawn. 

**January 30, early-ish in the morning.**

Inspector Lestrade made his way down the stairs from what would have been, had the townhouse been used for a more normal purpose, the servants’ quarters and children’s nurseries. He slowed and paused outside the door of the main apartments, forgetting that today he had more than reason to storm in. It was just his days tended to start like this, him halted here, hoping for a glimpse.

Sherlock. He liked looking at Sherlock, especially in the mornings, when Sherlock was often to be found in those loose knee-length linen underdrawers, their waist cinched around Sherlock’s narrow one with a silk ribbon, usually black, sometimes blue, and occasionally pink if Mrs Hudson was feeling whimsical. Sherlock never cared about the colour of the fastening, beyond predicting which would be awaiting him, using his ‘method’ to deduce (he called it; _guess_ , Lestrade thought it) based on his knowledge of his housekeeper and her habits and moods. Lestrade had thought Sherlock must keep extensive notes on everything and everyone around him, and maybe he did, but not by putting pen to paper. But no matter the colour, the sly now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t peep of the slim ribbon in-and-out the white cotton before it finished in a coy bow at the back always invited the fingers to, well, _touch_ at the very least. Pull and then let loosen at the very…best.

It wasn’t as if he wore stockings underneath, not for frowsting around the house, instead showing off slim shins and sweet calves and elegant feet, sometimes thrust into slippers, sometimes not, for all Mrs Hudson tutted and clucked over his ‘Adam impersonations’ and swore he’d catch his death. He hadn’t so far, not from the bare flesh, or any other unconventional aspect of his life.

Sherlock usually threw an even looser cambric chemisette on over those undergarments, and even without peeping in Lestrade could hear the rustle of the Belgian lace at the cuffs, could see those loose cuffs flopping over elegant wrists and, his imagination rising, in all senses of the word, feel the warmth and the scratch of the lace ties which zigzagged the open front closed when Sherlock finished his _toilette_ and attached a collar to go out in. He rarely donned the ruffled-fronted style, preferring the plain-fronted, even for the evening, if he could get away with it. Suited them, though, and Lestrade wouldn’t object to the fall and tingle of the lace ruffles, warmed by Sherlock’s body-heat, against his own bare skin.

He usually framed this alluringly louche, wholly lovely ensemble with that ancient blue robe he favoured, that deep-blue silk banyan which had lost its haughty, touch-me-not aloofness over time but which still made Sherlock’s mercurial eyes gleam a more livid, beating, sea-grey. Was it to tease, Lestrade wondered, closing his eyes and swallowing hard on a broken-night, morning-dry throat, that Sherlock left the gown unfastened, left it hanging loose as he strode quickly around, pacing on and over furniture in his way, or flopped as if winded onto a sofa? He determined to say something, do something about this, once and for all and finished his journey through the living room door.

Oh. Sherlock was neither pacing hard or resting flat in his barely respectable duds. He was dressed in something approaching respectability and something which showed him off to perfection: his suede leather buckskin breeches, so close-fitting and skin-toned to seem on first glance as though he weren’t… Lestrade wrenched his mind away from that line of thought and ran his gaze over the leather laces just below Sherlock’s knees, securing the bottoms of his breeches. He’d tried buttons and buckles, Lestrade knew, only to have the housekeeper moan at them ripping or tearing, or being ripped and torn, and all the work this gave her and whoever she inveigled into acting as maid for the short period before the poor woman was driven away, usually sobbing and sometimes screaming, by the master of the house. Yes, these ties were less trouble.

For once Sherlock had stockings on, tight and shiny white satin. Grabbed his evening finery uncaring, Lestrade deduced, having no valet or footman or gentleman’s gentleman to assist him, unless the absentee Mr Hudson, nominal butler, or ex-street kid Billy, sometimes stable boy, sometimes groom, mostly ex-Irregular, counted as mere servants, and Lestrade didn’t feel they did. They were all so much more than that.

Hmm. Stockings on, and yes, his top-boots were waiting, as was his tail-coat, but he didn’t appear in any rush to leave the house, instead standing turned into the window recess, his grey waistcoat smartening his shirt and showing as a movement against the dusky pink drapes as Sherlock plucked at his violin. Lestrade narrowed his eyes at the choice of outfit. Sherlock tended to wear those colours and that fit, the hues and styles he knew Lestrade preferred, when he –

“Do come in.” The invitation was drawled without the host turning around. “Mrs Hudson is just sending up breakfast, but I’m sure you know that.”

“Yes, Your Viscount.” The jibe was well-earned and the summons, especially issued like that, made Lestrade recall his reason for visiting at such an unsocial, proscribed hour. Not that Sherlock gave a damn, about that, or anything, really, not that haughty, aloof, self-proclaimed genius inventor consultant aristocrat who now turned and laid his violin aside, finding Lestrade more worthy of his attentions. As always, it was intense, being the sole focus of that white-hot attention, being caught in the centre of a volcano. Sherlock raked him with that all-seeing, all-knowing glare, its shade caught somewhere between the grey of dawn and the blue of day, but retaining the dark mystery of a London night.

“You look somewhat…enervated, Inspector.” Sherlock stalked to him, predatory even when shoeless, and walked all around him. Lestrade, who refused to turn with him, who instead waited him out. “Not much sleep?”

“As if you didn’t know!” Lestrade exploded. “I got your message. I suppose I should be grateful you used that street-Arab Wiggins and not the official Bow Street messenger boy. Sherlock, we’ve been over this. If you have some information the public officers should know about, communicate said intelligence and we’ll treat with it. You can’t keep going off on your own! It’s too danger – ”

“I wasn’t. I didn’t.”

The interruption stopped Lestrade in his stride, but didn’t throw him off. He turned Sherlock more into the wan light pushing through the thick curtains to examine him, taking in the discolourations of bruises, the redness to the knuckles.

“Got those on the promenade in Hyde Park, or waltzing at Almack’s, did you?”

Sherlock didn’t deign to reply to the sarcasm. “I presume he’s locked up.”

“And I presume you’ll testify before the magistrate. And be bringing a private prosecution?”

“Umm, no.”

Lestrade started to remonstrate – there was no way other than a private individual prosecuting another for a crime.

“I think you’ll find no shortage of ‘businessmen’ who’ll come forward to do so, once word spreads of his incarceration. People like him are bad for local trade, you see.”

“I see.” Lestrade would have no regrets about seeing the Chinaman, would-be London underworld face, off. Sherlock’s note early this morning had aroused many feelings in him, none of them positive. He’d no doubt word had been spread amongst the desired people by Shinwell Johnson, Sherlock’s, well, _agent_ , for want of a better term.

“And I hope you see that that is not the way such affairs are conducted!”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.” The languid disinterest didn’t dismiss Lestrade, as it did others. “Public office work is about doing the whole job, Sherlock. From discerning a crime by reports, to the gathering and sifting through of intelligence, to the confirmation by observation, the swearing-out of a warrant, the execution of the warrant, the apprehension of the evildoer and the magisterial sentencing, it’s –”

“Yes, I know that the police –”

“Public order officers!” Lestrade took the bait each time. Their argument was as old as their relationship.

“Sorry, _Runners_.” Sherlock smirked, but his opponent bit his lip not to rise to this. Lestrade hated that nickname, as did they all, and Sherlock knew it. “ _Runners_ don’t observe, see patterns, predict peaks or breaks and so engage in preventative –”

“We don’t go rushing off on some unsubstantiated tittletattling from someone eager to oust a rival, no! Well,” he amended, responding to that expressive feathery and now arched eyebrow. “Not all the time. And your actions…” _Leave you at risk, seem to stem from a death wish_ , he didn’t, couldn’t, say.

“Duly noted. Coffee? Still warm.” The long, slim rake wasn’t chastised at all.

“Do it again, Sherlock, and there will be reprisals.” Lestrade faced him square-on.

“Really? I’ll bear that in mind, Inspector.” And Sherlock was suddenly there, close, his voice a decadent low purr: “For when I overstep the mark and have to be reined in.” Too close, in fact. Close enough for Lestrade to see the dot-dab in his left eye, to catch Sherlock’s breath on his face, to feel the heat of his lithe body. He was, as always, much too close and…not close enough.

“Yes, well…” Lestrade resisted the temptation to run his fingers through Sherlock’s unruly mop of curls, especially the lovelock which hung so enticingly to tangle in his overlong eyelashes. “Coffee, you said? I’ll need that first.” He relished the grin this brought to that too-pale face.

The coffeepot, emitting a delicious aroma, stood on some bizarre-looking block, no doubt a warming plate of Sherlock’s devising.

“It’s perfectly safe. Well…” Lestrade watched him snatch up a large rubber ball to hold before he touched the metal coffeepot, and also noticed Sherlock’s curls become more disordered and flyaway as he held the handle and poured for them. He indicated Lestrade, his guest, should sit at the table between the windows. Manners, was it, now? Huh. Typical – the places were set were not facing the other, across the expanse, but at right angles, making a cozy-corner. A soft whistle blew across the room. “Ah. If you’d do the honours?” Sherlock nodded at the far wall.

“Oh God.” But Lestrade got up obediently, accompanied by a gritted-teeth, “Do not start.”

He opened the wall hatch to reveal its cavity, a hollowed-out chute in which stood the box-on-a-pulley, this containing the steaming breakfast dishes. A faint, “Yoo-hoo!” came up from the depths. Lestrade shuffled the dishes, china and silverware to the table. “You know,” he began, ignoring the curly head sinking to the fine-boned hands and the baritone voice harrumphing an “arghh!” “Most men in your position – ”

“Are unremittingly dull.” The snub-nosed countenance turned up to him.

“Lawyers, say, or politicians,” Lestrade continued, stopping at Sherlock’s rude snort.

“That what you prefer?”

“No fear.” He dealt with enough hidebound bureaucrats and titled buffoons. “Idle landowners, then, or – Kedgeree!” He pointed at the salver, whose dome he’d just raised. He loved that.

“Indeed. The very busy Mrs H has a contact at Billingsgate who informs her when fresh haddock comes in. She supervises the smoking herself, in that East End smokehouse she patronises. None of that foreign ‘you don’t know who did what to it and where’ Arbroath Smokie for her.”

He had to smile at Sherlock’s half-summary, half-impersonation.

“Oh, and you’ve some _jambon de Paris_ or _jambon blanc_ too.” Sherlock had lifted a lid. “ _Formidable._ ”

**“** Sherlock. I wish you…” _Wouldn’t risk the blockades, wouldn’t consort with God knows what free-traders, wouldn’t embrace Frenchified things just to get people jingle-witted…_

“Would become a John Bull? I see. Very patriotic. So you don’t want this Martinique Arabica coffee either. You’d prefer good old China tea.”

“Are you queer in the attic?” Lestrade grabbed his coffee cup from the presumably crazy Sherlock. “I’m swearing off all things Chinese for the nonce, anyhow.”

Sherlock was fighting a grin as he refilled their cups, adopting the same strange procedure with the rubber ball. Lestrade opened his mouth to ask, then thought twice of it. Sherlock wasn’t eating anything, Lestrade noticed, just observing Lestrade, who kept the frown from his brow. Wouldn’t want his host commenting he was Friday-faced.

“This is bloody delicious,” Lestrade remarked casually, lifting a forkful of rice and fish. Sherlock shuddered. “Hmm. Here. Try this then.” Lestrade speared a sliver of pale ham onto a twist of buttered bread and held it to Sherlock’s mouth. When Sherlock opened said mouth to protest, Lestrade essayed the morsel inside, leaving Sherlock no choice but to bite a portion off. Lestrade then held his own coffee cup to those tantalising, tempting lips and watched the ripple of motion down Sherlock’s elegant, slender throat as he swallowed. He repeated this with the remaining corner of bread and ham, meeting no dissention.

“Good?” he asked huskily.

“Good.” And the wicked temptor cleared his throat and raised his eyebrow for more. He ate some fish from Lestrade’s fork, his dark-pink lips closing over the tines and holding them in a unholy kiss as he looked up at his benefactor. Lestrade couldn’t resist and used his other hand to twist a finger into that errant curl bouncing free, to twirl it up and away, tucking it in with its fellows. He gently removed the fork, watching Sherlock’s lips still pouting in that beguiling shape, and those unsettling eyes seeking his out. In invitation? Lestrade thought so. Hoped so, as he leaned forward and –

_Spuuuzt! Criiickle!_ With a few more _pops_ and _zizzes_ , the strange looking warming-box under the coffeepot caught fire. The pot was propelled off, to spill its contents across the table, and the flames licked the table.

“Gad!” Sherlock sprang up – away from Lestrade – and dashed over to rescue any papers or books in the immediate area. With a muttered oath stronger than Sherlock’s, not entirely occasioned by the domestic disaster unfolding in front of him, Lestrade rushed to snatch a lap blanket from the back of a wingback chair, to drop it on the table, fire blanket and blotting paper all in one. The smell was dreadful, and Lestrade was glad to cover the strange threads and lumps of metal that were the device’s innards.

“Sherlock,” he began, his tone heavy.

“It was my latest invention!” the mad genius interrupted, not pausing for breath once as Lestrade shoved back the drapes and flung open the window. Lestrade hardly understood a word about “contact electrification” and “net positive charge” and “voltaic piles versus triboelectricity.” Didn’t want to.

“So you’ve moved on from indoor gas lighting and heating to this, what, electrification?” he asked, folding his arms at the inventor in front of him. “You agreed to keep your work inside your laboratory. And secondly, there’s no need for this tribal electricity howjamacallit. Or, while I’m on the subject, a metal pipe bringing up hot water you force up with a foot-pump and pull a chain to shower over you in that standing-up ducking-booth. Or more pipes bringing up cold water to a closet for a ‘siphon discharge of waste products’. Or in fact any servant-saving devices you dream up! In fact, what you do need –”

“Oh please.” Sherlock sank down at the table and drinking Lestrade’s coffee for him. “Let me save you your breath. How is it? I have it by heart now. Ah. Most men in my position would live on the family estate in the bosom of the country or if they sought the dubious pleasures of London, gentlemen’s lodgings in the respectable West End, or perhaps those fashionable new bachelor apartments in the Albany, comfortable and room for one’s servants, or even a set of chambers in racey St James’s Street. Did I have it aright?”

He had, of course. Lestrade sat down again too. “And if you need more space, for your pastimes –”

“If you dare to mention the family mausoleum in Grosvenor Square…” Sherlock began, grabbing a chunk of bread and breaking it into crumbs.

“Think I don’t know you?” Lestrade had to smile at the horror wiping itself off Sherlock’s face. He took advantage of his friend’s distracted state to sidle a bite of bread and sweet compote into his mouth for him. “Yeah, I can’t really see you in that new estate in Mayfair, in one of those new planned streets, bristling with villas and row houses.”

“Jostling to see who can be closest to Westminster and the court of St James’s? Er, no. I’m better off here.” Sherlock chased down the rest of his scant breakfast with the remains of Lestrade’s coffee. The last, in fact, of the coffee.

“Only you would think that.” That this, this townhouse so newly built, as to be practically still wet, and a house he’d had a hand in the design and features of, was better? It was in Baker Street, for heaven’s sake, which, for all it was in Westminster, was beyond the pale, in the Marylebone district. The street had no elegant name, like Duke Street or the new Regent’s Square, being instead called prosaically after the builder who’d laid it out last century. And laid it last century-style, long and straight, a busy thoroughfare bisected by others, such as the bustling Marylebone Road a little lower down, not an elegant Georgian curve shying away from a main road.

It suited Sherlock, who liked to look out on the street when he wasn’t in the rear yard with its London-pale plane tree. And that was another thing, another typically Sherlock thing, that the back contained no proper mews or carriage-house: he used the space for his workshops. His laboratories.

“Only you would live here,” Lestrade sighed, taking some elegant fruit-topped flaky pastry to break in half and toy with, waiting for those slender fingers to snaffle the other piece from his plate.

“That’s not quite true.” Sherlock made a courtly gesture towards him with a berry-ripe morsel before popping it between his much more succulent lips. “You do too.”

Lestrade scowled, scowled as darkly as he could. That night was still a blur, no matter how hard he tried to recall it. Him, celebrating his promotion. Sherlock, celebrating the completion of the Baker Street house. Him, drinking champagne and smoking cigars. Sherlock, boasting of his house’s ‘servantless’ features. Him, declaring as he had before, he wouldn’t live there for a thousand pounds. Sherlock declaring Lestrade didn’t have a thousand pounds, but that he, Sherlock, would accept that vow as collateral against Sherlock’s real thousand pounds’ worth of real estate.

Looking round, his head sagging, Lestrade realised the card game could no longer be whist, as the two other players were sitting out, leaving him and Sherlock, Sherlock sketching out complicated numbers and sequences on the tablecloth, speaking faster than even usual and waving his hands about as he insisted he could cross the Rubicon in a trice by scoring a hundred points or more in the first minutes of the partie, using his observations and superior mathematical knowledge to understand which cards were held and coming (at least this, this old argument, was familiar) and that honestly, Lestrade, the scoring would be even more simple should they forgo the ‘if the loser has scored at least a hundred points, the loser pays the winner the difference between the players’ scores plus a hundred but if the loser has not scored as many as a hundred points then the loser pays the winner the sum of the players’ scores plus a hundred’: theirs was instead a straight transaction and…

His head swimming, now, his stomach roiling from the black coffee, his brain trying to recall the difference between blanks and discards, ruffs, points, sequences, sets and tricks, and when to declare and when to repique… The card game, now officially designated a wager, had been entered in the gaming-book and witnessed with an _X_ from the ruffians who were Sherlock’s guests, and a signature, from Lestrade’s colleagues, and the room, now reduced to just the length and breadth of the table, was hot, dry and airless and now glaring-bright from all the extra candles called for, which meant more drink was needed.

Soon they were neck-and-neck, then Lestrade ahead, with refinements and amendments called out to the original terms of the gamble as Sherlock grew in wildness and he in confidence at taking so many tricks, and of course he lost, lost it all, lost the lot on the last hand, and there was brandy now, a whole bottle, and cheerings and commiseratings, for all he wasn’t sure of whom and for what and, and a passing out, and a painful coming-to. A painful coming to life in a strange room, all his scant possessions there, waiting, accusing, _smirking_. He’d been conveyed somehow to his new apartments at 221 Baker Street, just above Sherlock’s, the latter’s now labelled 221B. He still wasn’t sure if the numbering system started at the top, his rooms, or at the bottom, Mrs Hudson’s domain. _Or even existed._

“Sherlock,” he decided to try again, to get at the real truth, of him and Sherlock moving in together. Well, not together but not…apart.

“Oh, come to gloat, have you.” And Sherlock, scanty repast over, was starting his morning pacing. His top lip furled into a tighter rosebud.

“Gloat.” Lestrade had quickly learned one didn’t need to ask questions with Sherlock. Or even to repeat words to use as goads, but he did the latter anyway. Probably a consequence of his work, dealing with so many suspects.

“That I couldn’t keep my word and retrieve the stolen property. That my theory wasn’t correct.”

“Hey now! I’m sure you were correct. Just there was nothing I could do without evidence. I couldn’t get the magistrate to swear out a warrant on a feeling, now could I.”

“True. Still, I’ve something here that may just console you, Inspector.”

When Sherlock called him _Inspector_ , in that tone, something he’d started that night, it was…was never…

“What.” He wouldn’t rise, wouldn’t…

“Oh, just a little something here. In my pocket. Come and feel.”

Wouldn’t rise, wouldn’t cross to the slim, slender figure lounging against a pillar. Wouldn’t paw at the now-bulging pocket, risking a sprain and rip trying to twist his wrist. Pursed his lips when he did so, though, and folded his arms.

“Ah. You can’t get at it like this,” was all the warning he had before that lithe body, warm and thrumming with intent, twirled around to give Lestrade his back, no, to press his back sinuously against Lestrade, to rub up against Lestrade, deliberately, and erotically.

“You filthy little alley cat,” Lestrade whispered into Sherlock’s ear, nosing the silky ringlets aside to do so. He caught the fleshy lobe between his teeth and pulled a little, just a little, but enough to elicit a hiss from his would-be tormentor. “What’s this, you’re a tease now? You’re bamming me, like a doxy?”

“Just feel,” breathed Sherlock, rubbing his right hip into Lestrade. The right…pocket, crammed full of…

“Oh.” Lestrade slid the jewels free, expecting to be blinded by the beam of triumph shining strong from Sherlock’s face at having conned him. The pale features wore instead an oddly speculative look. Lestrade cleared his throat. “You got the goods back. Obviously. Well, well done.” As he stepped away, he felt colder, as if he’d stepped into the shade.

“Indeed. And I claim my reward.”

“Already? I will, of course, but you must know I can’t have been recompensed by the duchess yet.” He indicated the as yet unreturned and unrewarded booty.

“That’s not what I mean.” Lestrade had to lean forward to catch the rest: “And you know it.”

He stayed silent, still, waiting for Sherlock’s next move. It soon came, as with a breathy, “You owe me,” Sherlock stalked towards him, closing what space there was between them.

“Do I. And maybe you owe me.” He so enjoyed confounding the master at his own sport. “For putting up with your fustian, way I do. Patience of a saint, I have, with your neck-or-nothing ways. You know there’s a right way to do things, to conduct the work. You should – ”

“Become a member of the Foot Patrol, like you?” He gave Lestrade no time to protest that wasn’t what he was, what he did. “No fear. I like my function, as a specialist consultant, for when you’re baffled.”

“Baffled?” Lestrade all but shouted. “Baffled? I’ll show you baffled!” And before he knew what he was about, he grabbed the slim form tormenting him and dragged him in, holding him tight. “I’ll baffle you,” he issued in a whisper against those pert lips, his gaze fixed on them too to avoid those all-too-knowing eyes and whatever glare or glint might be in them.

No glare or glint, just a diamond-intense gleam which translated into action, into Sherlock taking over, taking control, taking command, so the kiss which might have had its birth in Lestrade trying to force Sherlock into submission and Sherlock refusing to submit blazed ahead in a lightning shock and thunder clap of want and need and _here_ and _now_ , lips meeting, softening, breath halting and thinning, tongues seeking and finding. It was as hard and brutal and as wild as ever, as always, their battle, their struggle towards a co-existence. This time Sherlock gained the advantage, setting the pace, controlling the tempo, and he pulled his head back. Just a fraction, as he thrust a leg in between Lestrade’s.

“You know what I want,” he panted, two hectic-pink roses blossoming on his cheeks. He thrust again and dropped his gaze to where their bodies were joined, making a huge pout of his lips to make his meaning clear.

“Your prize,” Lestrade muttered, thrusting back, giving in to longing and slotting a hand into Sherlock’s curls to brush them back, to see his face better. It was no hardship for Lestrade to give in to Sherlock like that. He loved pleasuring him, using his mouth to bring him to a gasping, heart-stopping little death, just as he loved it when Sherlock teased and toyed with him before bringing him off, and always to a body-jolting spending. God, just the thought of Sherlock’s taunting, tempting, too-clever lips on him had him even stiffer. He followed Sherlock’s eyeline and saw him looking at their reflections in the glass over the mantel.

The two of them, entwined, both tall and strong. Sherlock, slimmer, wiry, all dancing mahogany curls and quicksilver eyes. Himself, broader, with shorter and silvering hair and a heated sparkle in his brown eyes. They did make a striking pair. An unusual couple. Not that they were, a couple. More like antagonists, a lot of the time. But their love-battles always ended in there being no losers. Lestrade suddenly drew back as he thought he caught a slight noise, perhaps outside in the corridor, beyond the open door.

“What.”

“Just recalling…the last time we were…standing here, like this.”

He wouldn’t forget it. How many days was it, after he’d moved in? One, two? And what had their tryst, their bout then been occasioned by?

“The Paddington poisonings,” Sherlock murmured. “I proved the compound was being deliberately introduced into the area, with dogs and horses falling victim to it, as a disguise for when – ”

“Yes, all right!” He’d thought Sherlock must be right when they’d made the wager. Didn’t mind being wrong…and paying a forfeit. Only as he’d sunk to his knees there’d been a noise, and a scraping and a falling and a whooshing and _clunk_ , a small body had dropped down the chimney into the thankfully unlit fireplace. Sherlock had dashed over, taken a look and yelled, “MRS HUDSON!”

He scowled at Lestrade, helping the child free of the sooty coal, as he crossed to his speaking tube and cried into it, “MRS HUDSON!”

“She’s outside gossiping with Mrs Turner,” Lestrade informed him, reaching for his kerchief to clean the face of the climbing boy, the unfortunate snowball who’d plummeted thither.

“MRS HUDSON!” shouted Sherlock out of the window. “Cease being a quidnunc with that apartments to let next door and come HERE!”

He snatched up the soda-water syphon and before Lestrade could stop him or rail at him for designating their neighbor a widow on the catch, squirted it into the face of the poor, benighted urchin, cleaning off soot and grime and leaving in their stead pale skin, dark-red curly hair and flashing sea-green eyes, all dripping wet. Lestrade’s jaw clanged open, and the word Sherlock exclaimed between gritted teeth sounded like “Elfy!”

“Ælfheah,” he clarified to Lestrade, narrow-eyed. “Who should be at a ladies’ seminary in Bath, not scrambling over rooftops with a gang of sweeps. What did you do, persuade a street child to switch places with you as you were conveyed thence a week ago? Have you even set foot in the place? I thought you were conveyed there by guards?”

“Yes, no, yes but they’d never seen me before so it was easy to arrange that they never did and she’s getting better marks than I ever would,” riposted the young woman. “Oh please, Sherlock, don’t send me back. I hate it so there. Here is much better.”

“That’s illogical. How can you go back somewhere that you’ve never been to. Also, you cannot claim you ‘hate it there’ in an affirmative, declarative sentence when you have no empirical proof of ‘it there’. Likewise you cannot use a comparative to compare two places neither of which you have experience of. Oh, and how long did you think to continue the deception?” Sherlock enquired, unmoved.

“Hopefully until after Mycroft married Annie-May off straight from the schoolroom to some dull, pompous politician or dull, fat land owner!” she answered. “Brother, please!”

“ _Brother?_ ” exclaimed Lestrade, looking from one to the other. There was a resemblance, in the cast of the features as well as the colouring, and the postures.

“Yes, oh, how do you do,” remarked Ælfheah, trying a curtsey, which looked very odd in her stained and tattered ragamuffin clothes. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. _Please_ , dearest Sherlock. Why can’t I live with you here in London? I’ll have a governess, I swear.” It seemed an oft-asked question. Her tone was wheedling, and she clasped his hands in her much tinier ones. But he remained as if stone.

“As if any governess in the land would remain a day! Mrs – Oh. At last.”

And then the exclamations and recriminations and lamentations really began and only ceased when the girl was removed, still trying to cling to Sherlock, then to items of furniture, wowing no milk-and-water ladies’ academy would hold her; they’d see. Sherlock snatched up the brandy bottle and poured himself a healthy measure as the door closed behind her. “Don’t ask,” he warned the still bemused Lestrade, offering him the bottle.

“Don’t tell,” Lestrade replied, reaching for it, not wanting to think of the dangers and horrors befalling a gently reared female consorting with a gang of rapscallions. “Ever. Please.”

Now, in the present, he jerked his head toward the hallway.

“Ah. An audience. And you prefer…privacy, don’t you,” murmured Sherlock, getting into his jacket. He needed no help to shrug into it, but Lestrade assisted him anyway. He stamped into his boots and called, “Do come in.”

Lestrade, the evidence of his arousal bulging large in his unmentionables, just as Sherlock’s tumescence was plain to see in his tight breeches, stared openmouthed at the not overly tall but stocky dark-blond man walking in with military gait. He also had a soldier’s carriage, head and shoulders well back, so far back he studied the ceiling and walls and far objects before being able to drag his gaze to both men.

His eyes were huge as he looked from one to another, taking in their easy proximity. It was obvious he’d been watching them. It was obvious he’d been …affected by what he’d seen: his face was red and his breathing a little erratic and there was an unmistakable tell-tale sign below his waist too.  

“This is Dr Watson. He’ll be taking rooms here,” Sherlock announced.

“Here,” Lestrade echoed.

“Here,” Sherlock repeated, jerking his chin towards the smaller bedchamber. “I expect, as a medical and military man, he’ll prove most adept at assisting me in my new occupation.”

“Assisting?” the man enquired.

“Quite. And you’re bang up to the mark to help me celebrate my appointment.”

“As…” Lestrade had a feeling he wasn’t going to –

“Consultant. To Bow Street. Consulting expert.”

“In what?” Dr Watson enquired.

“Oh, poisons, for one thing. Vestigial traces, blood, hair, teeth impressions, footprints, for another. I’m sure you reconnoitered my workroom outside and my study along the hall here. Yes, expert consultant to the court and magistrates at 4 Bow Street, Westminster. Oh, this is Inspector Lestrade. Dr Watson and all that. And this” – Lestrade stared at Sherlock as his voice hardened – “is a complete waste of space. Hullo, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock,” came in a restrained-sounding half-purr, half-sigh. Lestrade had seen the impeccably dressed, tall, not as slender as he would like, redheaded man before.

“That’s Viscount Holmes to you,” said Sherlock.

“A word, little brother?”

“You may speak freely,” Sherlock said, with the largess of a lord.

There was a silent conversation between the two, before Mycroft, Lord Holmes, Lestrade belatedly remembered, said, with a sickly smile, “Very well. Sherlock, as much as it pains me to deliver these words and to remind you of...well, you were given a specific time period in which to settle down to a more stable existence, after your… Well. One doesn’t… To procure a respectable establishment. To seek out suitable companions. A gainful occupation. Respectability…”

“He has,” came in two voices, neither man seeming to take a shine to the newcomer’s barely veiled enjoyment of his ‘distasteful’ task.

“As you can see, _brother_ , I have a well-appointed abode presided over by one of His Majesty’s chosen” – Lestrade said nothing – “congenial, useful employment and a live-in doctor, should I…require one. And a soldier, should I require that, also.”

“Morning,” said Dr Watson cheerfully, ambiguously, standing at ease.

“So you won’t be able to carry through your pathetic threats. Oh, and do leave.”

“Do let me see if I understand. You’re settled here, solving crimes for Bow Street and sharing your quarters with…” Mycroft looked from Lestrade to Dr Watson and tailed off. He half turned, and Lestrade blinked. He thought he’d seen something very like…smug satisfaction on the overfed face under the ridiculous beaver-hat. _Had Mycroft somehow… No._ “Well well well,” Mycroft continued. “‘This is the age of oddities let loose’, indeed.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, an unholy light shining from his face, “and isn’t it most _glorious_?”

Lestrade, late for work and aching so much from unfulfilled desire that he knew he’d find sitting his horse extremely uncomfortable, tried valiantly not to laugh at Mycroft’s bad-smell-under-his-nose face and Dr Watson’s surprisingly schoolroom-miss giggles as he found himself thinking, _It actually is_. _It really is. It bloody is._ Especially as Sherlock burst into peals of the most joyous laughter too, his glee lighting up the room. No; lighting up the whole of that mad, if not bad and dangerous, oddity 221B Baker Street. And just then, right there and then, Lestrade knew he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Continued in _The Age of Oddities One: A Study in Pinks._


End file.
